Long Geoffrey Poems
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At age twenty I had made it to Earls Court.
The rented room was seedily solid
having been for decades
filled with wine and cheap sunlight.
Until then I had not read a thing
apart from: ‘The Ship’ by C.S. Forester
and ‘Arms and the Man’, by G. B. Shaw
both part of a school curriculum.
I liked Shaw for his wit and intelligence
No one told me then that he was, in fact,
a fascist of the worst kind,
I thought he was an erudite old Irishman
like my uncle Sean.
A pink girl with huge eye-glasses, moved in.
She was studying Geoffrey Chaucer
in the original middle-english.
I hadn't a clue.
I bought a book of poems by D.H. Lawrence.
I forget why, but I liked his name
and my uncle Sean often talked about his poetry.
Turns out Lawrence had written a pile of books also,
but back then I was just into his poems.
I read ‘Grapes’, and I read ‘Figs’.
I read ‘Medlars and Sorb-Apples’, I read ‘Peach’,
I read ‘Cypresses’.
Back then I don't think I had ever seen a cypress,
a ‘medlar’ or a ‘sorb apple.’
I read: Snake,
Baby Tortoise,
Turkey-Cock,
Kangaroo and many others.
A few years later I found out
that the poets that were considered
to be good poets, and the critics
who were thought to be good critics
didn't think much of his poems.
I tried reading the poems of the good poets,
but after a while I felt nauseous.
Then I discovered Dylan Thomas.
The pink girl did not understand his poetry,
neither did I much,
but I ate up his words like a starving man.
Turns out Dylan Thomas was a drunk
and a mean bastard,
just like my uncle Sean.
It wouldn’t have been possible
without Colin Firth
in the movie,
'The King’s Speech.'
Colin is an actor,
who reminds me
that language can be
as powerful
or more so,
than music,
sometimes.
Colin plays the role
of George VI
in this film.
He coped with a stammer.
Not Colin, King George VI.
He sees an Austrian
speech therapist
and two men
become friends.
He makes his first
broadcast
to his world
(England).
Yes, the actors are outstanding
as great actors always are
and enhance great films
and make mediocre films
unforgettable.
Without Geoffrey Rush,
would any great or mediocre film
without him
be worth watching?
His maniacal laugh could make
the sun hide
and me smile
(but that was a different movie).
Like a tooth
pulled out from the roots,
can you or I survive
divorcing or outliving
our soulmate?
No.
Britain declared
war on Germany
in 1939.
The whole world stopped to listen,
and George VI
didn't stutter,
neither did Beethoven.
~ ...and the yonge sonne, hath in
the Ram his halve course y-ronne... ~
Canterbury Tales, Geoffrey Chaucer
Today is Tuesday, all day
but in the middle of the night
it'll be Wednesday. Will you
be there to greet the new day...
Perhaps you greet the New Year
on January 1, which is a new day too
Do you greet each month, instead
of each day -- in lieu...
The Gregorian calendar's based on
the sun, so why doesn't a new day
start when its race is run; that's how
the lunar calendar views it...
The pale white satellite, or semicircle, or banana
commencing its journey in the early eve
passing its weary friend, a fresh face for twilight
along with a 'hostess of twinklies' to light up the night
The boy stood on the burning deck
arms akimbo legs a'brace
while cannon balls rolled above and beyond
'twas the greatest challenge he had yet to face
as pouring oil on troubled waters
they who only stand and wait also serve
to post o’er ocean without rest
don't receive all they deserve
and crying, “O Captain, my Captain,
an order's sorely needed,
should I stay or should I go?”
but remaining at his position
alas little did he know
Luc-Julien-Joseph Casabianca (1762 – 1798)
his distinguished father lay fallen
extinguished cold and dead a deck or so below
Orient the gallant Gallic flagship of the line
had weather'd every rack and tack
meanwhile the port of Alexandria was near
during the Battle of the Nile
(August 1798)
in the Bay of Aboukir
when Alexander and Swiftsure
the victor ships came in with object won
and the gunpowder magazine exploded
blowing crew and child to kingdom come
tho' Rear-Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson
did all but four of the French fleet destroy
the noblest thing which perished there
was the heart and soul of that young faithful boy
With apologies to; Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1793 – 1835)
John Milton (1608 – 1674)
Michael Geoffrey Jones (born 1955)
Walter Whitman Jr. (1819 – 1892)
Alright have to admit that whole drole Bazball or Baz Bat cool cat vibe…rabbit out of hat tribe.. is taking its toll..sunk in a hole..losing it’s goal and soul..not being a vitriol troll..maybe need to mull over a cull of this rigmarole..
Can’t pretend..is the end of this spangly jangly new fangled trend…nothing off the shelf…just express yourself…won’t spank you..will almost thank you.. if you tank…bonkers fools rules you can’t bend…must always go stonkers.. all cool no old school…when you shan't defend and depend on a blend of soft conkers and tracks to conquer..
Let’s explain there are many ways to play and entertain…the lotto of the Baz grotto..no dull lulls …no more bore score draws…one motto…just high octane insane where seemingly the sole means to control is a flat track that blunts and shunts how every attack does bowl..
I know..have already banged on..had a go at the pitches…feather beds so flat you can bat gung ho heave ho from the get go.. no wear and tear..glitches or hitches.. despair to stop the flair.. no real movement in the air or off the square..the Bazball pest…Bazbat conquest..effectively saying no we won’t be surfing the crest of a true test contest of willow and leather..hey ho nonny no…to the real deal Test fest..tally ho..
No pretension..apprehension of the lacking dimensions and few mentions of the best Test tensions..
Also must rebuke how they have turned the duke ball from a serious nuke which would spook.. enthrall..now reliant on a cherry that gets so soft you need a fluke ..well Dukes will be compliant as England’s their biggest client…we saw our copper haired laird no longer..stronger defiant..again came a cropper..and this was hardly a proper whopper green topper..
It seems kitsch Bazball rule needily greedily avoids any glitches or hitches in batter’s riches which in turn.. does spurn and bewitches merchants of seams and stitches..
Well it can be dicey to make your tracks at home too spicy..get in a lather…at the palaver as runs become rather pricey..when you could goad..milk that ilk as you explode on a silk road..
Our selector trifecta…the three wise men..Baz..Bob and Ben.. know if there is no speedster thuggery… no Geoffrey jaffas…bunsen spin skulduggery..they will be the gaffers with some Bazball muggery..
Written: January 26, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Sara Jama
Quote by Geoffrey Chaucer "Time and tide wait for no man,"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time, a poltergeist whisper
slipping through the cracks
Moments shimmer
akin to Petunia petals aloft,
a hypnotic dance —
ephemeral yet priceless.
Time waits for no one;
haven't you felt its rush?
Time waits for no one —
It simply drifts away.
With each tick, clocks transform
into the fabric of history—
you seize fleeting seconds
as if they could stretch forever.
Wilted Orchids echo
forgotten dreams,
pulled by unseen forces
upon a canvas of memories.
Each speck of time,
a mason's chipped work.
Harmonic motions dim
in the palms of eternity;
calming breezes frown
upon autumn’s sunlit glow.
No one halts time—it surges on!
It speeds faster than a blink.
Nostalgia weaves itself
around crystal vessels,
while moonflower garlands
bloom amid hazy dreams.
Tattletale smiles escape
into hollow nights—
a foggy embrace
filled with haunting whispers and grins.
Tulips muted bluish—gray
etch their tale in time’s shore.
Embrace winter’s trudge
and find solace unvexed:
surf through waves of magic
knowing love beams bright.
Galumph through life
daring despite harsh fates:
vagabond dreams vaudeville
within flummoxed hearts;
a rainbow palette spreads
beneath a hammock sky.
No matter what, it lies ahead.
After passing, it's futile to cling on.
Desolation puckers beneath
the glistening dew decline,
an abyss where bleeding
wrists are fodder for worms.
A sycophantic squire crafts
kismet kernels stripped—
flesh ripped by careless slips,
losing grip on whispers;
breaths juggle surly skies,
sharp as bleak thorns.
From cradle to grave,
We've learned —
that time is wealth
we must cherish.
Darkness veils endless roads,
plummeting in twilight throes.
tangled fears mimic
Dionysus amphetamine highs—
brimstone offers esoteric solace
that straddles the magnetic edge.
Whispers eviscerate as they swirl,
amber kisses across fallen stars.
Crocuses bloom in purple
while goldfinch trill
yellow celandine riddles.
Employ your edge before it fades.
Everyone longs for plenty of time.
You can't carry time with you
money cannot reclaim lost time.
Time ticked until the stroke of ten
before descending its wrath on men
And at that hour it escaped its cage
Pendulum chiming with total rage
Humans are in chaos as they await
time to restart. In its hands, their fate
Does this mean heartache will not heal
until once more bells ring out in peal?
Ongoing wars, a pandemic to battle
Earth warming; earthquakes that rattle
Everything seems to be in such upheaval
We need relief from these days of evil
Woe to those with little hope and belief
who see only doom and wallow in grief
who no longer have faith in their vision
and chide others with scorn and derision
Don't condemn a country or it's leaders
after having four years of bottom feeders
Humans are imperfect. We're all flawed
but you hold a gun in the firing squad
You write of patriotism, but have none
wielding your pen as if it were a loaded gun
You roughshod America with seditious words
like mad cows running in stampeding herds
Remember, "Time and tide wait for no man,"*
Tragedy has struck those living in Afghanistan
Blame Biden, but include Presidents in the past
so reprimand them, too when you lambaste
Time has no power to stop of its own accord
Its hands keep moving and will not be ignored
The world has problems that must be rectified
by the coalition of nations it will be allied
Call me a dreamer. "It'll never happen," you say
that may be a reverie, but come what may
When the times comes God will raise His hand
and at that time, the world will understand.
*Geoffrey Chaucer
The beautiful young woman’s accent was unusual.
Was she Romanian? Ukrainian?
Geoffrey could not place it, but he enjoyed hearing it.
Her soft voice sounded European.
Are you from the other side of the world? He asked her.
She smiled at him, giving nothing away.
Could you give me one more clue? Geoffrey asked.
Without hesitation, she threw back her head and howled.
Nothing faux about her howl, it was a bonafide wolf howl.
Long, furious, keening. Wolves in the forest answered.
Geoffrey was intrigued; this made her more genuine.
“You were raised by wolves,” he guessed.
“What kind of wolves?” the young beauty asked him.
His gaze melted into her ice blue eyes.
Arctic wolves?
She thought this was hilarious.
She was raised by amber-eyed wolves in Germany’s Black Forest.
Welcome, Summer
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft,
the songbirds sing your praises together!
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather.
We have good cause to rejoice, not to scoff,
since love’s in the air, and also in the heather,
whenever we find such blissful warmth, together.
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Whoso List to Hunt
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe? Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow. I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Whoever seeks her out, I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
"Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame."
Brut
by Layamon, circa 1100 AD, an excerpt
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.
If you see a busker singing for tips, you're seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf …
He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—"Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: Chaucer, rondel, roundel, welcome, summer, sun, winter, weather, frost, songbirds, song, love, night, nights, ice, icy, heaven, heavens, sky, Wyatt, hunt, busker, thanes, Anglo-Saxon, Beowulf
A euphemism is a way
of saying what went down,
of neutralising all dismay,
and rubbing out the frown.
The bad stuff has by now occurred,
but let’s not raise the tension:
we need a mollifying word,
a less-than-stressful mention.
“We cannot say for sure, at all,
how World War Two will end:
you think we’ve got a crystal ball?
Who knows how things may tend?”
These words of Hiro Hito were
designed to calm the moms:
did no-one in Japan say, “Sir,
they’ve dropped two atom bombs”?
Imagine that your local church
(episcopal, suppose)
needs newbies, and is on the search
for Sunday-sucker-Joes.
“This Hitler guy, let’s not say why,
won’t be the perfect warden.”
And if your parents have to die,
what’s wrong with Lizzie Borden?
A dinner invite: you’re recruiting
a trusty baby-sitter –
Rasputin, maybe? Why not Putin?
You don’t want Gary Glitter?
The kids need someone, prima facie,
less controversial, calmer:
Spencer Tracy? Kevin Spacey?
Let’s book the Dalai Lama!
Count Dracula is not Count Basie
(self-harmer, instant karma):
but better yet than John Wayne Gacey
or even Geoffrey Dahmer.
Euphemism doesn’t work.
I’d rather know the truth.
So Humphrey Bogart was a jerk,
Roy Rogers and Babe Ruth.